


It's Only Science If You Write It Down

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Series: NSFW Stridercest Week 2017 [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Image, M/M, Robot/Human Relationships, Secondhand Genital Dysphoria, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Orientation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: NSFW STRIDERCEST WEEK 2017 DAY 4: YOUR KINKmy kink: nonbinary robots with interchangeable genital attachments





	

Switching out panels is… doable. By yourself, theoretically. You think you have all the ports lined up, and you think the arrays are communicating, but it’s hard to tell, because everything’s so delicate and sensitive anyways. A good double-check would be looking at it in a mirror, but it’s at an awkward angle, and you don’t want to risk walking and dislodging something in the process.

Good thing you have a built-in double-check that’s just sitting there in the living room doing something that isn’t you. With your network connection, you tap into the television speakers to call out to him: “Dirk!”

TT: Stop showing off, bro, you have my attention.

“I need to run an experiment.”

TT: Then just get some graph paper and a pencil. It's only science if you write it down.

“I also need all constants present to verify the results.”

TT: Implying I'm one of the constants, because you're talking to me.  
TT: Fine. Where are you?

You can hear him shift off the couch, start following the hallway to the back of the apartment you share. “Just past Parliament and the second star to the right,” you say, your voice following him over intercom.

“Of course, right where I left--” Dirk’s voice stutters to an abrupt stop as he gets past the threshold of the bedroom.

Well, you must make quite the sight, you have to admit. The mattress has made for the best surface for any repairs or maintenance that needs done to your chassis, especially when you have to do it yourself; surrounding you are eyeglasses screwdrivers, a soldering iron, and some patching wires, along with other spare parts from your recent panel exchange. To that end, your legs are splayed open and you’re full naked, your ankles at each corner of the foot of the bed and your crotch on full display to anyone who walks through that door.

Your genitals, of course, being the panel that got swapped out. Your robodong is safe, out of the way on the nightstand, and back in its place (securely, you hope) is a yonic structure: clitoris, vulva, labia, vagina.

Dirk is fucking _staring_  at it. Not at you--at it. Like it could bite him from two yards away or something. “What?” you challenge him. _Shame_  is not exactly a thing you can feel, but irritation is.

“Why did you do that.”

“Mm, I think the _better_  question is, why did you make this.” One hundred percent of your chassis, replacement parts and all, was designed by the man standing right in front of you.

“I--what--Hal, close your legs when I’m talking to you.” He’s pushing his shades up his face with his thumb on one point, middle finger on the other; it very conveniently totally blocks his view of your everything.

“I’m not sure that’s safe,” you tell him. “I can’t be sure it was installed correctly from this angle.”

“Then why the _fuck--_ ” Dirk takes a deep breath in through his nose, pushes it out heavy through his mouth. “Seriously, dude, this is weird.”

“Yes, I agree, you’re being weird.”

“Because you decided to do cosmetic surgery on yourself without telling me!”

“And would you have helped with this project?” Conspicuous silence from Dirk’s end. “Which is strange, because there’s no reason to make me a cunt if you don’t have some expectation of using it at some point.”

“Why would I use it?  _I’m gay_ ,” Dirk says in a long-suffering tone.

“Christ. You transphobic shitlord. Get in here and help me make sure I didn’t damage myself.”

A snort. Then, Dirk drops his hand. “Okay. Okay, _fine_ , but then you’ll--I’ll help you take it off again once you’re done doing your science, or whatever.”

“This is part of the science,” you tell him. This is really getting to him, and it’s interesting to watch his reactions. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

Dirk’s taken two steps into the room; he kneels at the foot of the bed, reaches up carefully. Still can’t bring himself to touch you. “Why _isn’t_  this bothering you?”

“Having interchangeable parts?” He shakes his head. “Wearing this one?” A nod, and a soft hand on your thigh–but no further. “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.” Well, he could, but he’d be lying to you--that’s something you both remember, idle twelve-year-old fantasies. “I have the option, so I pursued it. I can uninstall this whenever I want--with your help, of course--and go back to the other set.”

“So you just… don’t care?” His other hand comes up, runs a caress up from your other knee, and why does it feel like his thumbs are holding your thighs apart for inspection?

“Not so much. Is it really that strange?” Maybe he needs a more metaphysical explanation; the practical one doesn’t seem to be getting through to him. “I spent more than eight years not having a _body_ , let alone a dick. And now I have genitals. It’s great. Everyone’s happy.” Or at least you thought Dirk would be jumping at the opportunity to try this without having sex with some icky gross girl or something.

The way Dirk has his hands on you right now is the same posture as when he’s about to go down on you, except his breath is nowhere near your skin. That’s the _real_  disorienting part to you. His thumbs run up the insides of your thighs, end up where your legs meet the gap between--oh, that’s so sensitive, it takes some real effort not to close your legs and trap his hands there. You know what he’s trying to feel out: near-invisible screws holding you together, making sure your connections match up. Usually this maintenance is a little more routine and has a much… happier ending. Right now, though, Dirk’s hands are tensed, and you know he intends his touch to be as clinical as possible. Even his lips are pursed together when you deign to look down.

“So?” you prod him. “What’s the verdict?”

“Everything seems fine,” he admits. “So can we switch this out now?”

“Okay, let’s try this again: What the _fuck_  is your problem, bro?”

His thumbs still haven’t left that sensitive gap. It’s too far from your labia proper, but it’s just close enough to be in a place where the sun don’t shine, and it’s a hint that there’s more sensation to come. “I’m--I mean, you’re--this is--” He swallows and tries to articulate himself a little better. “It’s not supposed to look like this.”

That doesn’t make any sense to you, but if you make this silence as uncomfortable as possible, you know Dirk will try to fill in the gaps in his meaning. He won’t do that if you’re staring at him, though, so you let your head fall back to the mattress.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Dirk tries to explain. His hands still haven’t left the vague area of your crotch. This isn’t just a maintenance inspection anymore; his thumbprints can’t leave the soft skin you’ve exposed to him. “Except there’s one part that’s just _wrong_. Everything else is the same, face, build, hair, stature, but--It’s like I’m looking at myself and I just don’t look like I’m supposed to. I can’t believe it doesn’t feel like that for you.”

“I have zero problems with this.” Especially since Dirk has extremely capable hands and they won’t leave the vicinity of your princess parts; your hips have started a very gentle tilt with every sweep of his thumbs. “Now, are we doing science, or should I just spend a few hours undoing all the work I just put into this?”

Dirk lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “What _science_  did you want to do.”

“And here I was, thinking you’d be curious about how the neural pathways correspond when I’ve never had these parts before.” That pricks his ears up. He’s always a slut for robotics. “It’s not as though you don’t have experience with digital manipulation or oral stimulation or penetration.”

“You seriously want me to fuck you while you’re wearing this?”

“I said _or_ ,” you point out. “Any or all of those would be acceptable.”

“I’m…” You’re starting to lose him again. And then you see the HUD on his shades flickering just that slightest bit. “Not really all that experienced with this set of equipment.”

“I’m sure the skill sets are analogous,” you reassure him. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m--what?” It’s like he didn’t notice his thumbs were still caressing you, right before he would actually touch anything like a genital. “Oh, that--that felt--okay?” Another flicker of his lenses.

That dirty cheater, he’s pulling up _diagrams_. (You ignore, for the moment, your own natural advantage over him in this department, having the entire Internet at your disposal at literally all times.) “A little bit of a tease, but yes, it’s _okay_.” You’ll upgrade that adjective if he ever starts getting a move on.

“So I’m--okay. I’m going to--” He doesn’t exactly warn you, but at the same time, it’s not painful. Just awkward. He kneads the pads of his thumbs into you, then ever so gently pries apart the delicate linear structures. “I might need you to scoot down.”

Something in a hidden, interior part of you clenches. You’re not used to that feeling being there. It’s not unpleasant, just strange--and the way Dirk’s peering at you so inquisitively makes you want to shove yourself in his face and chase down that sensation again. You push yourself down, but Dirk meets you halfway, hauling you towards him until your cunt is right at the edge of the bed.

He’s still just kind of… looking at it. Massaging at it a little with his fingers, but definitely staring. Your voicebox does a little glitch, the equivalent of you clearing your throat, and Dirk startles. “Sorry, I--still weird. Internal monologue. Having a… a _pussy_  right here.”

“Then maybe don’t call it that?” Yes, you’re a little petulant, but he’s being so damn _difficult_. “It’s just…” Well, casting around for words isn’t exactly easy when Dirk’s hands are still doing a thing that’s just far enough away from anything meaningful that it frustrates you. “A node,” you tell him. “And a front valve. And some… channels.”

“And this part is your node,” Dirk guesses, moving his thumbs up and keeping you spread apart so he can expose your clit.

“Smart man.” Funny, once you get past that mental block, he doesn’t have near as much reluctance to touch you. “Guess which one’s my front valve.”

One thumbprint stays where it is; the other finds the seam of you, darts down until he finds that entrance. “Right here.”

“Much better. Oh--” when the thumb still at your--your _node_  massages a slow, small circle around it. There are _things_  happening to you internally that you don’t quite recognize, but you feel very open, very vulnerable, and very scrutinized.

“You’re--Hal, you’re,” Dirk tries to say, and his other hand slips; it feels like he’s smearing something between your legs like this. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do wh--” It cuts off in a filter of static as you realize you’re, for lack of a better word, _leaking_  onto his fingers, and he’s tracking it all through your channels down here. “Ew, fuck, I feel _wet_  down there.”

“Guess I’m a better structural engineer than I thought.” Delicate fingertips fold your channels, first one way, then the other, while he tries to get a better hold on your anatomy. And he’s just idly rubbing at your node with his thumb, in gentle up-down sweeps. The more of your lubrication he gets on his fingertip, the easier it goes and the better it feels.

You don’t know why it’s occupying so much of your attention when it’s objectively so tiny compared to what you’re used to working with. And the more Dirk manipulates your node, the less it _squishes_ , like it’s--hnn… like it’s trying to distractedly connect to an output it’s used to and harden up so it can drink in every little touch. Or maybe it’s supposed to do that? You earmark that sensation for further testing, but not now. You don’t want to interrupt Dirk from his weird little genital trance and get him off his game again.

“So,” he says, his voice quiet and low. “This valve right here,” and he sinks his fingertips into you, drawing attention to that divot but not penetrating it just yet. “Does it act like your other one?”

“I imagine it would,” you half-truth at him. You have no idea. This is your first round with this thing, too. But if it’ll make him more comfortable, “Putting your tongue on it wouldn’t be too dissimilar to rimming.” Right?

Dirk frowns; you see it more in his eyebrows than in the turn of his mouth. “I don’t think you need any more slicking up down here, bro.”

“It’s also to relax the valve for further penetration.” You really wish you could roll your eyes without him catching on.

“Oh. Right.” The fingertips that were dawdling at that entrance slip away to hold you open instead.

As delicate as his touch has been, you weren’t prepared for the sinfully hot, wet softness of his tongue against your parts. He finds the cleft of you, dips in but not inside, traces up, and you’re melting into his mouth, trying your damnedest to keep your hips still so you’re not outright trying to fuck his face. “Oh, _fuck_ , Dirk!”

He does that thing with his eyebrows he always does when he knows he did something right and does his best to retrace that movement. You need to hold onto something if he’s that determined for you to flip right off the handle. No sooner than your fingers run through his hair, though, and Dirk’s pulling away to glare at you. “No pulling.”

“I won’t.” He doesn’t want you to guide him where you want him? Fair enough, this is his show at this point, you’re just here to get pleased and look pretty. Still, he slithers his tongue through your channels and finds the shut of your valve with the tip and you’re tightening your hand, making him groan right into the core of you. This isn’t yanking, this is _tugging_. Completely different, and you’re prepared to argue with him on this.

If he ever stops making you a wet, shivering mess with his mouth, that is. His tongue is curling, persuading, encouraging, feinting at your front valve, his jaw constantly moving his lips in a strange little swallowing kiss around you. Your front valve, though, doesn’t seem as cooperative as the back one--because you’re unfamiliar with it, or because that’s how you always would have been, if you--? “I just want you to know,” Dirk says once he takes a breath; you look down and everything from his nose to his chin is dripping with you. “This is nothing like eating ass.”

“Yeah, it really doesn’t feel that way,” you have to agree. “Wait, what--”

“Well, like you said,” Dirk narrates, getting his fingertips up to the entrance of your front valve now that his mouth has fallen away, “it’s supposed to relax you, right?”

“ _Supposed_  to,” you point out, and then your voicebox shorts out in a dial-up warble as Dirk pushes forward and _in_.

It’s weird. It’s weird it’s weird it’s _weird_. Good, sort of? You can understand that it might feel better if you’d been at all ready for it, but you feel all tight inside. Not like your usual valve, but unsteady and soaked and nearly swallowing down what offered. “Hm,” Dirk says idly, and pulls back just enough to skirt a second fingertip around the ring of your valve.

“Nnn,” you start with, trying to get your vocal glitchfest under control. “Not that, no.”

“Not this?” You make an embarrassing stutter of fax-machine noises that come out long-short-long-long, and he stops with that doodling outside touch. “What about this, is this all right?” with a crook of the finger still inside you. A long screech followed by a short one, and Dirk sighs, starts trying to pull it out. Not easy, with how much you’re subconsciously trying to resist him, but there’s a hard-to-hide sense of relief once he’s not actually inside you anymore. “Okay, I’m at a loss. I don’t think you overloaded or anything, am I right?” Vigorous nodding from you. “You still want to?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you hiss out--just because that last attempt was a completely bungled misadventure doesn’t mean you want to stop. Everything between your legs is still vaguely throbbing and definitely wet.

Dirk’s staring at you again. This one’s different than the way he was looking at you before, though. This time, you’re not a sideshow freak to be gawked at and avoided; you’re a puzzle, an equation that needs to be solved. When he plucks his thumb across your node, you shiver, and you watch a few variables slot into place behind his shades. Again, and you end up yanking harder on his hair than you intended, pulling his cheek down against your thigh. “Whoa, okay, I get the idea, hold your horses,” and then he’s.

Leaning down, breathing against it, and then swirling. His tongue? His tongue is on your node. His _tongue_  is on your _node_. Folding around it, cupping it lightly before licking off, replacing that teasing touch with the heated seal of his whole mouth as he sucks you in, and yes. _This._  Like with your shaft, only all those sensors condensed into such a tiny space, and you feel a lot less guilty about tipping up with your hips and shoving your node further against his tongue when you can’t accidentally choke him off from his stupid human need to breathe with your eagerness.

Dirk’s mouth is fucking talented, and in a completely different way from his hands. His fingers are precise, ten surgical instruments that are search-and-destroy for any erogenous zone you ever thought you could hide from him. His mouth, on the other hand, is delightfully sloppy, and he always throws himself into giving head until he nearly swallows his own tongue with his exuberance. Right now he’s running his tongue in long, eager slurps against your node, laving it in affectionate attention, and you grab at his hair with both hands lest he have the audacity to stop. That same internal clench you’ve been feeling has evolved into a coil, a clamp, closing down around--around--chasing--

You overload with sparks in your eyes and shakes in your legs, one of those sublime, hovering orgasms that erases your id and crushes you into nanofigments of cosmic dust in the meditative space of a minute. Dirk just encourages it, never stopping that constant motion of his tongue until your slack frame falls back to the mattress.

While your fans stutter back online, you see him--or his blurry outline, given how fuzzy your optics are--wiping his mouth on his forearm. You have to give him credit for not viscerally spitting your juice out of his mouth. “Should I,” you lazily slur out, and start to prop yourself up on one elbow so you can reach for him.

“Don’t bother.” Curt, to the point. Then, a little softer, “That was for you.”

Fuck, that felt way different from what you were expecting. Not one hundred percent positively, either. But that overload… Really, you’re just dithering around in your head because you have no idea what to say to Dirk. He’s not still disgusted. You don’t _think_  he’s still disgusted, anyway. You’re not about to apologize, but something about this seems awkward. Still fizzing a little in your circuits, you admit, “I don’t think this was very good science.”

Dirk’s breath catches. Catches again, this time in a snort. “Given that you wrote down jack shit with a side of fuck-all, your method needs a little work.”

“I’ll stipulate to that.” You go to sit up and the spot you’re sitting in makes the least dignified _squelch_  noise you’ve ever heard. “Uh, bro, I could use a towel-off and a panel switch.”

“I gotcha,” Dirk says, picking up an eyeglass screwdriver and a corner of the fitted sheet so he can work on you in a totally different way. “Let’s see if I can’t remind you why original recipe is always the best.”


End file.
